


Lavender

by Snickerdickles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Beat Generation, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Historical, Beat Generation, College, Cuddling & Snuggling, Historical, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lance (Voltron) is a Dork, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 16:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickerdickles/pseuds/Snickerdickles
Summary: Lance is a Creative Writing student, never known adventure. Never known love nor interest.Keith, well, we aren't sure.Gift for Lizards/Eli in my Discord. Merry Christmas!





	Lavender

_ For Eli (Lizards)  _

Lavender

_ The Flower _

The year is 1948 in Chicago, Illinois.  

21 year old Lance McClain is a Creative Writing major at Columbia University in New York. The Second Sin City, The Big Apple, The City That Never Sleeps. 

Much like the city itself, Lance had not slept properly in months. Maybe it was the homework, the assignments and assessments, perhaps the wild thoughts that ran themselves off the tracks of his mind in the night, or maybe it was the conformity, the formulas and formats that were called “creative” in the basic, simple-minded classes he attended by day, every day. 

Truth be told, his thoughts had never been quite so odd as when they formed themselves on the hard mattress he lay on at this very moment. Somehow, the blanket of smoke above and around him was thicker than that of his actual bed, and he knew, still, he would not fall asleep until the high began to fade in a couple of hours.

So his pink and irritated eyes continued to stare emptily up at the ceiling. 

When his eyelids grew heavy and began to droop, he did not dream. 

-

When the sun rose and shone through his thin curtains, the clock still read 6:30, and the calendar Saturday, September 12th. 4 hours of sleep. 

The hard-stuck leather on the bottoms of his Chukka boots clicked along the hardwood floors of the vast hallways on his way to the library. This early on a Saturday morning, it was the only sound heard. 

Then the creaking of the heavy wooden door to the Library and the distinctive sound of it shutting in an almost entirely silent environment. The crinkling of the spines on leatherback books and the papery sounds of people gently touching and turning pages. The smell of it all. 

But, Lance had come to finish homework on classic Gothic authors, not to enjoy himself. He felt outrageously loud when he walked through the endless aisles of reference materials to be used exclusively on assignments, dragging his fingers across the titles, reading each one as he passed it until he had found a substantial amount of information to keep himself busy and quiet for a while. 

When he had finally sat down, opened his bag and set his work out in front of him, pulled out a pen and and opened the first book to the index, he had looked up for a moment and seen two bright eyes looking at him through a curtain of thick, dark hair. He stared for a moment, silently unable to look away. He looked not at the face, not at the body, not at whatever was on the table in front of them, just at the eyes. 

They were a color that Lance recognized, thistle. Like the flower, fresh in bloom and still light enough to appear slightly purple. Lovely, and when he finally managed to tear his eyes away after what felt like eternity to him and awkward prolonged eye contact to whoever he was gawking at, the person had clearly soft skin. Soft, supple, and reddish cheeks. Like a natural blush. It was no girl, though. He looked down and absent-mindedly filled in answers and wrote in paragraphs. 

Nearly four hours later, he heard the defined clap of a closing book and looked up to see the same thistle-eyed man getting up and walking over to one of the volunteer librarians with a wink in Lance's direction. 

For some God forsaken reason, Lance felt the need to follow him, so he piled his books together and set them on the desk in front of the Librarian for her to put away and started to rush out the door, before she called out to him. 

“Sir, the gentleman before you requested I give this to you. Have a nice day. “ she had looked at the books with empty disdain for a moment before smiling at him. He looked back apologetically and took the small piece of folded paper from her. 

Just as he passed the doors into the still-quiet hallway and turned the corner past the door frame in a rush to open and read the paper in private, he nearly ran into someone, and when he looked up, he saw thistle eyes looking directly at him. 

“Let me take you somewhere. Somewhere fun. If you've any interest in going, the address is on that paper.“ His voice was wrought with attitude, in such a way that reminded Lance of one of the men he had on a poster in his bedroom as a teenager, Tyrone Power. Specifically in  _ Zorro.  _

When he had walked far enough away, Lance was still dumbstruck and left in awe of the cold, raw, sexually charged energy this man gave off, and when he unfolded the paper, he found, true to his word, an address. As well as a signature.  _ Keith.   _ His handwriting said nursing major who never quite got the hang of proper cursive. 

 

_ Lavender Love  _

The address, from the outside appeared dull and likely abandoned. Like a poor soul had lived there during the Great War. 

On the inside, the atmosphere was loud, but quiet. There were only a few people talking, but those who were didn't know how to read a room. Everyone else was laying in the corner, on the floor, on a chair or sofa, completely silent. 

Still, this felt too much, and when he turned to leave, his arm was caught by someone, he turned, and saw bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and dark hair.  _ Keith.  _ He stood for a minute, and when Keith let go, Lance whispered to him. 

“What is this? Are those people okay?” Keith looked around, like he, as well, didn't know what he was looking at. Then he pointed to a man on the couch, wearing a gas mask, who appeared to be asleep. 

“Them?” He asked. He pointed now to the people talking to loud, the ones standing, or rather, stumbling. “Or them?“ 

“No, the man on the couch. Is he okay?” Keith giggled behind his hand. 

“He's fine. It's nitrous oxide. If this is too much we can go outside.“ 

The air outside felt colder than it was when he went in, less than 5 minutes ago. The two of them sat on the curb wordlessly, and Keith pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit in his mouth, softly inhaling before letting the smoke relax into the cold evening air. He offered it over to Lance. 

“Do you smoke?“ Lance made a face. 

“Eugh, not that nasty shit.“

“Oh?” 

“Just to sleep on quiet nights.” 

“Are you saying you'd like a loud night?” 

“Not particularly, I'd like to get to know you first.“

Keith laughed and took another inhale. 

“So, I never did get your name.“

“Lance.” 

“Nice name, says a lot about you.” 

“For example…?“

“Tells me you're a little bitch.” Keith laughed again, but this time it echoed, loud and unafraid, many times over. Lance hadn't even noticed it wasn't meant to be an insult. “Names mean nothing. It's just a word. Means nothing until you give it context.“ Keith puffed out again, then he stood up and walked inside. “I'll see you Monday, Loverboy.” 

And Lance was dumbstruck once again. 

-

Lance woke up to his alarm clock ringing, marking 7 am. Outside his window, the sun was high, and there was heat radiating inside. His eyes itched, and in the mirror, they were still red from the night before. But, at least he had his assignments finished before his 8 am lecture, European History. 

When he showered, he thought of Keith. When he shaved his stubble and pulled on his pants, he thought of Keith. When he collected his notes and prepared to leave, he  _ imagined  _ Keith. He lost himself in a daze over his exhausted, but curious eyes. Over the shape of his face and his bow-shaped lips, over the curvature of his body and how little he seemed to care about proper dress and how he seemed like a lost soul who had found every hidden shortcut and treasure, but never the end. 

And all of a sudden he was sitting in class, and judging by the clock, having missed about half of the lecture. If the Professor weren't so blind, he might have gotten in trouble for not paying attention. So, he scribbled down whatever was already written on the board to makeup for lost time and listened as well as he damn well could for the remaining hour. 

On his way back to his dorm, prepared to sleep for a few hours before he had to attend his actual day classes, he ran into a familiar face. 

“So listen, I wanna get to know you. But I'd rather keep it quieter than last time. “ Keith looked incredibly awkward and Lance could feel his face lighting up like a kid in a candy store. 

“Of course! But, uh, where were you thinking?“ Lance tried to sound as relaxed as possible, but a fair part of him said that he had no hope after his dopey self had taken over at the party. 

“Maybe your dorm? No distractions.” Lance considered for a moment, quiet as the people leaving 8 AMs and arriving to 10 AMs shuffled and clicked past. He could have a nap, or he could have an emotional connection to an incredibly cute, relative-stranger. 

He looked at Keith for a second, then nodded his head down the hallway, motioning for him to follow. Keith looked a bit confused for a second, before catching up with Lance and whispering, “Now?”

Lance just smiled and nodded again. 

 

_ Mayahuel, Xtabentun _

Lance's dorm was, admittedly, a bit of a mess. Disorganized, not dirty. There were books in piles around the room and a mess of papers and uncapped pens and broken pencils on the desk. But all of the laundry was folded and set in piles on the bed to be put away, and the room was spotless. His mother had taught him that much. 

The first thing Keith did was not look at Lance, not take off his shoes in the neat lineup of them at the door. He simply walked in and began by looking around. He looked at the piles of books, titled with names like “Traumatic Psychology & Freudian Theory“ and “Greco-Roman Social Morality“. 

On the desk, he gently dragged his fingers across the papers and brushed off the eraser shavings. He picked up a piece of paper and read no further than “Dear Sister“. The ink was in all different colors, from red to blue to green to plain black. Beneath the unsent letters lie drawings, sketches of people, men posing like women in Roccoco Era France, naked and soft looking. It was all shaded and smooth and entirely un-arousing. There were drawings of women in their undergarments with a cannabis pipe in their hands or a glass of wine and stains all over their clothes. 

Lance pulled the chair from the desk and sat down backwards across from Keith, unashamed of his art, which would otherwise be considered evil, sinful, erotic. 

“Why do you draw these?” Keith hadn't looked up. 

“I draw what comes to mind. I draw what I like, what appeals to me.“ 

“Do I appeal to you?“

“You do.“

“Would you draw me?” 

“I would, but not now.“

Keith nodded and set down the drawings. From there, they talked about family. How Keith never shared his last name in fear of mockery or attack, how Lance never spoke Spanish, not even in letters back to Cuba, because censorship from the War was still strict. They talked about their favorite fruits. Lance loved guava and prickly pear, while Keith preferred plain strawberries. They spoke of love, the subjectivity of it all. And Lance told the old Aztec Mexican tale of Mayahuel. 

“Before colonization, before the Spanish, values were different. Mayahuel was a young woman in Aztecan society, and she was unmarried. Because that was okay, she needn't reproduce, and she didn't need to pair herself off, so long as she could defend herself. She slept with countless people, men and women. She was tough, but she was around when the missionaries began to arrive. And when they heard word of the woman who whored herself out had no children, no husband (despite existence in a society without marital confines), and more than their God, they tries to punish her. They tried to take away her lovers, then they tried to kill her. Make a show of the love they called a crime. But, Coatlicue, the Mother of the Earth, Sun, Moon, and Stars, knew her true nature. She slept with all of these people because she genuinely loved them. She felt they were worthy of her and her body. And when she died, she was buried on the river, and she became the Xtabentun.“

“Lance, what are you trying to say?”

“Honestly, I forgot. But it's a nice story, no?”

Keith chuckled and held out his hand, palm up. 

Lance looked inquisitively at him for a moment, and he set his hand in Keith's, who took it and lifted his knuckles to his lips, planting a kiss. Lance blushed to high heaven and flopped back on his bed, face scarlet red, and sighed. Keith laid down next to him, on the tiny, impressively thin mattress and pushed himself up into Lance's chest. 

Lance gently placed his hand in Keith's hair, petting him for a while, staring at the same ceiling that he had looked at so many sleepless nights and tired days before, and he felt his eyelids get heavy. At 3 in the afternoon, he was tired, and he fell asleep quietly. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried, but it's short and the rewrites were unbelievable. It probably came out trash as hell.


End file.
